Chapter 12 - The Syndicate's Heir
Midnight at the abandoned grain silos on the Calumet River was a masterclass in desolation. Towering concrete cylinders rose like giant monoliths against the starless, smoke-choked Chicago sky, casting long, fractured shadows across the overgrown gravel yards.
My Maybach rolled to a stop fifty yards from the main loading bay, its headlights cutting through the thick river fog.
I stepped out alone, my heavy wool coat buttoned to the chin, my hands empty and resting visibly at my sides.
“I’m here!” I called out into the dark, my voice echoing off the rusted corrugated metal walls. “Show yourself!”
A slow, mocking round of applause echoed from the shadows of the upper catwalk.
A figure stepped out from behind a rusted iron staircase, descending slowly into the dim pool of light cast by my car’s high beams. He was tall, dressed in an immaculate charcoal tailored suit that looked entirely out of place in the industrial wasteland. As he stepped into the light, I recognized the sharp, patrician jawline and the cold, predatory smirk.
Julian Maroni.
The eldest son of Vincent Maroni Sr., and the cousin of Vincent Maroni Jr.—the man who had fled to South America six months ago after I dismantled his empire.
“Salvatore Gallo,” Julian said, spreading his arms wide as if welcoming an old friend to dinner. “I must admit, I didn't think you’d actually come alone. I thought cold-blooded syndicate bosses only cared about ledgers and bank accounts.”
“Your cousin made the same mistake, Julian,” I said, my voice steady and completely devoid of fear. “And he’s currently eating prison gruel in a federal penitentiary. Do you really want to repeat his family history?”
Julian laughed, a sharp, humorless sound that cut through the damp river air.
“My cousin was a fool who relied on corporate shell companies and cyber-thieves,” Julian snarled, his eyes narrowing with bitter hatred. “He tried to play chess with you. But I’m built differently, Gallo. I don't care about money. I care about blood.”
He snapped his fingers.
From the shadows behind the silos, two heavy-set enforcers dragged out two figures with black burlap sacks over their heads, shoving them violently onto the gravel. They yanked the sacks off.
Linda gasped, her face pale, trembling with terror, her hands bound tightly behind her back with heavy rope. Keo was clutched tightly against her side, crying softly, his blue action figure clutched in his tiny fist.
My pulse spiked, sharp and lethal.
“Leave the boy out of this, Julian,” I warned, my hand inching imperceptibly closer to the pistol hidden beneath my coat.
“Oh, no, Salvatore,” Julian smiled, pulling a heavy-caliber revolver from his shoulder holster and pressing the barrel casually against Keo’s temple. “The boy is the centerpiece of the evening. For six months, your little maid has been walking around my city as if she’s untouchable, living in luxury under your protection, while my family name was dragged through the mud and driven into exile.”
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“This is between you and me,” I said, taking a slow step forward.
“Step back!” Julian roared, cocking the hammer of his gun with a loud, terrifying click. “One more inch and I scatter his brains across this gravel right now. You destroyed my family’s legacy, Gallo. Now I’m going to watch you crawl.”
